


Die For My Own Sins

by trycatpennies



Category: Magic Mike (2012)
Genre: Angst, D/s, Drug Use, Dubious Consent, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-11
Updated: 2012-07-11
Packaged: 2017-11-09 15:29:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/457053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trycatpennies/pseuds/trycatpennies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ken goes looking for something, gets in trouble, and Richie thinks he can help. Ken's not so sure.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Die For My Own Sins

**Author's Note:**

> Technically a companion piece to [this fill](http://magicmikefic.livejournal.com/648.html?thread=2184#t2184) in the kink meme, but you don't have to read the fill (it's Mike/Adam) to read this.

He’s drifting in and out, and he knows it’s dangerous to play like this, but he can’t help it. It always feels better when he’s flying high. 

He blinks, bleary-eyed, and tries to focus on the Dom working him over. He can’t remember his own safeword, and he can’t remember his own limits. He knows he gave them to the guy, but he can’t even remember this Dom’s name. He’s not holding out much hope for his boundaries being respected. He blinks, again, and then -dark. 

When he comes to, he hurts. He’s stiff, more than stiff, sore and aching. His back feels like one giant bruise, his ass feels stretched out and overused and he’s coming down from his high, smashing back into reality.

He sits up, wincing, and looks around. There’s no one here, the guy he’s been playing with had left him in the backroom where they’d fucked. It’s a fairly well known and respected play club, so no one’s bothered him, probably assuming he’s got a Dom to come take care of him.

He’s not so lucky.

He picks himself up off the battered couch he’d been on and reaches back, running his fingers over his ass. Lube (not enough), but no come. At least the guy used a condom. Probably not for Ken’s benefit, but still. Silver lining. He finds his shorts on the floor and bends over to pick them up, gasping when the pain shoots up his back. He carefully pulls his shorts on, and then his shirt, which he’d also tossed to the floor. There’s a mirror on the far wall, and Ken turns, checking his back before he pulls his shirt down. No marks. That’s good, Dallas’d kill him.

He checks the time on his phone, and sighs, limping out of the backroom. Just enough time for a shower, another hit and then it’s showtime.

-

It takes an extra hit to get him to a point where he can fool Dallas into thinking he’s fine, just ‘had a really tough workout, you know?’ and he’s still pretty sure Mike sees right through it. Fortunately Mike’s still distracted with training The Kid, and Ken can slip through the cracks, pulling his trench on carefully, so he doesn’t smudge the makeup he’s used to cover up the finger-shaped bruises on his neck. 

He doesn’t realize until Mike’s holding out his S&M gear that it’s the third Friday of the month, and he doesn’t have a chance to school his reaction, temper it and Mike looks worried at whatever he sees in his face before Ken manages an ‘I don’t think I’m up for it tonight, Mike’. It’s not a lie, exactly. He doesn’t want to face his demons in front of anyone tonight, and Mike nods, and backs off, managing to talk Adam into it. 

-  
Ken doesn’t watch the S&M set. He can’t bring himself to, in case he sees anything of himself in Adam. Or, possibly more terrifying, nothing of himself. He’s not sure anymore what the normalized reaction to that situation is. He knows, at least, the clean up part, and as Mike slings Adam offstage, Ken hands him some aloe, a cloth, and forces a smile. He asks if Adam’s ok, but he knows Mike’s got him. It’s a crystal clear contrast to what happened earlier at the play club, and he pushes himself on stage. He can’t watch Mike take care of Adam, when he himself had woken up this afternoon alone.

-

His set is easy, plastic smile for ones and fives. He wipes himself down with a towel afterwards. There’s no group number to finish the show, since the S&M routine had been extra time, and Ken’s glad. He’s done, for the night.

Dallas is ranting, something about girls with belly rings and what metal tastes like with tequila, and Ken keeps his eyes there, pointedly ignoring Mike’s worried glances in his direction. 

He packs up his stuff, and pushes past Tito and Adam, who seems back to normal, grinning as he listens to Dallas, still new enough to be impressed. Ken brushes off Mike’s hand on his arm, with a smile and a shake of the head and he needs another hit, seriously. The pot had kept him steady for the show, but he can feel the twitch under his skin, the way the world seems just that much dimmer. He pushes the door open, up the stairs, away from the guys cleaning the confetti spotted floor and he’s outside now, nearly-

“Ken.”

Fuck. He’d almost made it past those demons, tonight. He turns around, resigned.

“What’s up, Rich?” Ken’s surprised at how tired his own voice sounds. He feels like he hasn’t heard himself like this, down from a high, in a while. 

“Mike asked me to talk to you,” Richie starts and it figures. “And I was worried. You look like shit.”

“Thanks,” Ken says, and he can barely work up the sarcasm, and Richie’s frown deepens. “I’m just gonna go get some rest.” 

“Let me take you home?” Richie says, and his voice is soft and Ken chokes out a hollow laugh. Richie was worried; sure. 

“Thanks, big guy. But I’m not up for it tonight ok? I owe you a blowjob, or something, next time.” 

“Fuck, Ken, that’s not what I-,” Richie looks upset, embarrassed. Ken uses it, takes it and builds a wall. 

“Well, my ass is closed for business for the night, so you’ll have to find someone else to pound into the mattress ok? I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

It’s enough to get Ken out of there, and Richie doesn’t follow. He drops two hits on the way home, and passes out, blissfully dazed. 

-

He wakes up to pounding at his door, and an empty bed, same as he’d gone to sleep in. He doesn’t know where Char is, but she’s been gone for longer before. She’ll be back when she needs more drugs. It’s a fucked up marriage, but at least they can count on each other most of the time. 

He’s more sore this morning, and his crawl out of bed to the door is painful, muscles and joints protesting. He’d been planning on spending his day in bed, riding a low until he had to be at the club tonight. Instead he opens the door, squinting into the sun.

He’s expecting Mike; Mike’s shown up before after rough nights, and they’ll go get breakfast, carefully talk around all of Ken’s fucking issues, chatting about girls and music and bullshit until Mike feels like he’s done his due diligence and lets Ken go home. It’s not that Ken doesn’t appreciate it, but it’s not like it really helps. Mike’s good on stage, plays the crowd with crops and gags and chains, but it’s not what Ken really needs. 

It’s not Mike, at his door. It’s Richie and Ken puts a hand on the doorjamb, leaning heavily. He’s too tired for this shit. He’s not sure what Richie’s deal is. They’ve fucked a few times, but then, Ken’s fucked everyone a few times. It doesn’t mean anything, it’s just what he does. 

“Can I help you?” Ken asks, and when Richie doesn’t move or answer, Ken sighs, stepping back from the door and letting Richie in. His apartment is a mess, unapologetically, and hey, if Richie wants to be here, he can take it. It’s not like Ken invited him. Ken limps to the couch, dropping down gingerly and reaching for the small box they keep the weed in. 

He’s taking his first drag off the joint when he remembers Richie. He looks up and Richie’s standing in the entrance to the living room, hovering uncomfortably. 

“You want?” Ken asks, offering the joint. Richie shakes his head, and Ken notes that Richie’s not looking at him, eyes carefully on the window across the room. “What’s up with you?”

“You’re naked,” Richie answers, gruff. Ken looks down. He is, actually. It’d been too hot to sleep otherwise, and he hadn’t thought about putting clothes on to answer the door. He raises an eyebrow at Rich, though.

“You’ve seen me naked,” Ken points out, and he takes another drag. He could use something stronger, honestly. But he’ll wait till Richie’s gone. “We’re fucking strippers.”

“S’different at work,” Richie says, and Ken shrugs. He’d disagree. 

“We’ve fucked, too. And unless I’m remembering wrong, we were both fairly naked then, too.”

Richie looks upset again, and Ken leans back on the couch, watching him. He can feel the high setting in, and he watches the emotions play across Richie’s face. 

“About that, man. I wanted to apologize,” Richie starts, and he finally steps into the livingroom, apparently deciding his confessional is more pressing than his worries about Ken’s nudity. “I shouldn’t have taken advantage.”

“Taken advantage?” Ken says, and he chokes a little on the smoke he’s holding in. He coughs it out, taking a swig out of the water bottle that’s sitting on the coffee table. “I’m pretty sure I was into it.” 

“But you were high, right?” Richie asks, blunt. He’s back to not looking at Ken, who sets the joint down. Oh, it’s going to be one of _those_ conversations. 

“Of course I was, Rich. I’m always high,” Ken grins and he stretches, feeling the effects of the weed tingle in his fingers. 

“Why didn’t you do the scene last night?” Richie asks, and it takes Ken a second to follow the abrupt conversation twist, but when he gets there, he brushes it off, smile lazy.

“Just wasn’t up for it. You now how I feel about that shit. The headspace has to be right or you’re putting out that terrible energy, I just wasn’t-”

“You could barely walk when you left last night,” Richie interrupts. Fuck, Ken hadn’t thought he’d looked that bad. 

“Told you,” Ken says, and his smile is gone. “I had a hard workout.”

“What do you go looking for?” Richie asks, and Ken sits forward on the couch, holding his head. This is too much, and weed isn’t enough to get him through this conversation. If he could just sneak a hit of something stronger, he could convince Richie he’s fine- “Ken, c’mon.”

“You don’t know anything about me,” Ken says, tiredly.

“So tell me,” Richie says, and he still sounds angry, and Ken doesn’t know how to deal with angry. 

“Can’t we just fuck?” Ken says, helplessly. He knows Richie’d turn him down, anyway. It’s more of a last ditch effort to not fucking _talk_. When Richie doesn’t answer him, Ken sighs, and settles back against the couch.

“I was at a club,” he says, quiet. “I got roughed up, and fucked, just like I wanted. Passed out though, so I don’t know, I guess the guy didn’t feel the need to go easy on me. Not that I’ve had asked him to.”

He doesn’t mention waking up alone, or the fact that he’d actually had to check to make sure there’d been a condom, or that he’d barely managed to make it home afterward, to curl up and ache, inside and out.

Apparently he doesn’t have to.

“How fucked up were you?” Richie asks, and Ken rolls his head, looking over at Richie and smirking, hiding behind it.

“I know I’m still sore, and I know I don’t remember it. So pretty fucked up, I guess.” 

“Shit, Ken,” Richie says, and he looks genuinely worried. Ken frowns. “You’re going to get yourself hurt.”

“Clue in, big boy,” Ken shoots back. “That’s what I fucking want.” 

“Yeah, well next time how about you come ask me for it.” 

Richie’s voice is even, but barely controlled, and when Ken looks up at him, surprised, Richie’s still not looking at him, eyes locked on his hands in his lap. He’s so tense, coiled; there’s a muscle in his jaw that’s twitching and Ken has two false starts before he manages to say anything. 

“I’m not really sure you’ve got what I want,” Ken finally manages, voice a little less steady than it was a few seconds ago. He picks the joint back up, relighting it. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Richie asks, and Ken exhales, and his smile is a little bitter. 

“We’ve already fucked remember? You were good, sweet even,” Ken says, and the word sweet sounds negative, harsh. “But that’s not exactly what I go looking for.”

There’s another moment, and Ken finishes the joint, stubbing it out in the ashtray on the table, exhaling his last breath. He’s pleasantly dizzy, just spiked enough to-

He almost yells when Richie grabs him, one hand around his neck, squeezing. It’s not painful, though there’s a residual ache from yesterday. It’s just surprising. Ken looks at Richie, wide-eyed.

“Hey, what the fuck are you-” he starts, and Richie squeezes a little tighter, and shifts himself closer to Ken.

“Listen,” Richie says, and the tone of his voice, restrained power and control and strength makes Ken shiver. “Next time you need something, come and fucking ask me, and let me take care of you.”

He lets go of Ken’s neck and Ken exhales, sucking in another rapid breath. He’s looking up at Richie like he’s never seen him before and he can’t speak, doesn’t know what to say as Richie stands up, moves away. 

“And Ken,” Richie says, pausing just at the door of the apartment. “You don’t fucking know me, either.” 

The door clicks shut and Ken unfreezes, hazy headspace retreating enough for him to move. He exhales again, shaky this time and slumps back onto the couch, feeling the phantom grip of Richie’s fingers overlaying the ache from last night. The two sensations make him shiver, and when he looks down, his dick is hard, curving toward his stomach. Fuck.

-

He doesn’t look at Richie that night, gets through the show with minimal conversation and maximum high, and by the time he stumbles out of Xquisite, he’s flying high. He’d normally wait till he got home, but Adam’d asked, and well. Misery loves company, so to speak. The buzz of the show under his skin, the feel of Richie’s eyes on his back and the drugs have him dangerous and itching, and he knows he needs something more, tonight.

He avoids Richie’s look and bails, stumbling onto the sidewalk and into a cab. 

Fifty bucks gets him past the line outside the same club he’d hit yesterday, and he finds someone fast, and he’s on his knees in a bathroom stall within five minutes, the taste of latex on his tongue, bitter. He palms himself through his jeans and closes his eyes, ignoring the fact that he can’t even get past half hard, and that he can still feel Richie’s hand on the back of his neck.

He follows the bathroom blowjob up with a hit of something off the back of the toilet bowl, and within minutes he’s out, nothing but lights and sounds and the touch of someone against his back. He might as well be passed out, even though he can still see. He can’t feel a goddamn thing, and it’s perfect.

-

He wakes up somewhere. Nowhere. He blinks, tries to focus his eyes; he can’t. He leans over and throws up, and then-

-

He comes to again, panic and a racing heartbeat making him bolt upright. He’s in someone’s living room, and he’s not alone. There’s a few other people there, all of whom look as fucked out as he does. He scrambles for his clothes, ignoring the out-of-it blank stares of the other people in the room. He has no idea what happened, where he is. He can taste bile, in the back of his throat, and come. He doesn’t know who he blew; he’d made sure the guy in the club bathroom had worn a condom. He retches again, as he stumbles out the front door of wherever he is, and he vomits on the corner, leaning against a signpost. He feels terrible, jittery and strung out, and he can’t slow his heart down. He doesn’t know what he’s taken, what he’s been given, or what he’s done. 

He pulls his phone out and slumps to the curb, checking out where he is. He’s not too far for a cab, and he reaches into his back pocket-

Fuck. His wallet is gone. 

“Fucking shit,” he whispers, and he drops his head between his knees, struggling for a few more breaths. He’s getting dizzy again, and he knows he needs to just relax, take a few deep breaths and-

He dials the phone, hands shaking and he coughs before he speaks, voice raspy and hoarse. 

“Hey, Rich, it’s Ken, I-,” he pauses, and sinks a little further into himself. “Can you come get me?”

-

He leans his head against the car window and takes deep breaths, timing them with the passing streetlights. It’s not particularly calming, or helpful, but it’s something to focus on. Richie’s silent next to him, now that he’s checked that Ken’s ok, that he’s not going to pass out, that he’s ok.

He’s really not ok.

“Where are we going?” Ken asks, and Richie doesn’t look over. He’s checking his blindspot and turning off the freeway, three exits before the one for Ken’s apartment. 

“My place,” Richie answers, firm. Ken feels a swell of something; panic. 

“I can’t- all my shit is at my place,” he says, a little frantic. This time Richie does look over. 

“You mean your drugs?” 

“Yes, I mean my fucking drugs.”

“I have weed,” Richie answers, and Ken laughs, a little hysterical. “I’m not taking you there, right now. Not until you’ve sobered up.”

Ken’s too dizzy to fight, and he closes his eyes, willing away the panic and going back to just trying to breathe.

-

He comes down hard and badly. It doesn’t help that he doesn’t have anything to ease out of it. It doesn’t help that he doesn’t know what he took, either. He throws up until there’s nothing left, hunched over Richie’s toilet, sweating and feverish. 

At four am he holds down water, and at six Richie gives him a joint, and it eases everything. Before the high even hits, the Pavlovian reaction of inhaling settles his nerves and he feels like he can breathe again. 

“You’re an addict,” Richie says, and Ken opens his eyes, looking up. He’s still on Richie’s bathroom floor, in only his boxers. He’s covered in stale, cold sweat and god knows what else. He feels, for the first time, like a failure. Not because he’s like this, an out of control mess, but because, for the first time, he hadn’t managed to hide it.

“Old news,” he rasps. Richie’s leaning on the bathroom counter, sipping coffee. Ken can smell it. It makes his stomach turn. He hands the joint back to Richie, who finishes it. 

“Can you walk?” 

Between the two of them they get him to Richie’s bed and he tugs the covers up over himself, shivering. He’s not cold, but Richie pulls another blanket over him anyway. Ken almost expects Richie to take the couch, proclaim gentlemantly intent or something, but Richie slips into bed, curling up behind him and pulling him in. 

“This ok?” Richie asks, and Ken nods, burrowing backwards. The touch is grounding, calming, and Ken falls asleep. 

-

He’s halfway through a plate of eggs and on his second cup of coffee before Richie brings it up. He’s sitting at the table across from Ken, sewing, by hand, replacing snaps on a pair of tearaway pants, his own coffee next to him. 

“So what did you go looking for?” Richie asks, eyes on his stitches. Ken looks up, but keeps eating, keeps busy. 

“Something between not feeling anything at all, and feeling something, finally,” he answers. It doesn’t make much sense, but it’s enough. 

“Have you been using more?” Richie asks.

“Yeah, a lot more. More than-” he stops, admitting it for the first time. “More than I want to be.” 

“Will you let me help you?” Richie says, and he sets the pants down, looking at Ken over the top of his glasses. It almost makes Ken smile.

“Do you think you can?” It’s halfway self deprecating, halfway desperate plea.

“If you’ll let me,” Richie answers, and it’s certain. Sure. “Yeah, I think I can.”

-

He doesn’t stop using, nor does Richie make him. He doesn’t get fucked out of his mind on whatever anymore, though. He takes enough to get him high, in the right situations, and with Richie around, always. He stops dealing, too. That’s step one. Char calls him, bitches him out. Tells him if he’s not going to ‘be there for her’ then what good is he. He hangs up on her, and signs over the lease. He moves in with Richie instead. That’s step two. 

He’s working towards something, but he’s not sure what. He thinks he might know, somewhere in the back of his mind, but he’s repressing it. It’s too big to think about, but sometimes when Richie palms the back of his neck, or tells him how well he’s doing-

Sometimes he thinks he knows.


End file.
